


Another Way to Go Nowhere

by tryslora



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Community: hpchallengefest, Cross-Generation Relationship, Cutting, Dark, Depression, M/M, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-13
Updated: 2012-09-13
Packaged: 2017-11-14 03:54:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/511037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes it seems like Harry has been waiting all his life for Scorpius. He might be twenty-six years younger, but he is exactly what Harry has always wanted, and what he needs in his life. But Scorpius is broken, and by the time Harry realizes exactly how broken he is, he also has to come to terms with the fact that there is nothing he could have done to fix him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Way to Go Nowhere

**Author's Note:**

> I loved all of my challenge prompts, but this one gave me an instant bunny and wanted to be written NOW NOW NOW. Thank you, prompter! And thank you to S for being primary beta and E for being a secondary beta, and to R and M for giving me that final reader gut reaction for flow and consistency. It wouldn’t be the story it is without all of you. Also, as usual: _Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended._

Harry smells spice when he steps into his flat. Spice and treacle and warm, fresh bread. “Scorp?” he calls out as he tosses his robes over the back of the sofa. He toes off his shoes and kicks them to the side. “I can tell you’re here—my flat doesn’t smell like this normally.”

“It could if you let me cook dinner for you all the time.”

Harry is struck once again by just how much Scorpius Malfoy looks like his father, and yet at the same time how much he does not. There is an ease in Scorpius that Draco has never had. A looseness to his limbs, a smile that reaches his eyes without becoming a smirk. Scorpius has a humanity about him that Harry cannot even imagine seeing within Draco Malfoy, silvered eyes a warm grey rather than the chill of his father’s gaze.

He wraps his arms around Scorpius, pulling him in for a kiss. “If I’d known this is what would happen if I let you through my wards, maybe I would’ve done it long ago,” he murmurs against his mouth.

Scorpius tastes divine, like a mix of brilliant spicy curry with a hint of lemon and coconut. There is a scrap of chocolate on the corner of his mouth and Harry licks that clean, loving the way Scorpius moans. 

Scorpius is breathless when he finally manages to speak again. “I got off work early,” he says. “So I thought I’d come over and cook rather than having takeaway tonight.”

“I’ve never dated a bloke who can cook,” Harry admits. “Everyone’s either used to house elves, or they live on takeaway, and I certainly never have time to do anything fancy.” That’s the thing about being Head Auror: there is no time for much of anything. Not for cooking, nor cleaning, and certainly not for dating or becoming a family man. His job has come between him and every lover he has ever had, no matter the gender. He is determined not to let that happen this time. 

“I appreciate it,” Harry makes certain to assure him. “And if it tastes anywhere near as good as you do, I’m sure it’s going to be brilliant.”

“It tastes better.”

Harry tries Scorpius’ mouth again, and isn’t sure that’s possible. Heady like brilliant wine, and Harry is drunk on it. He wants to sweep Scorpius up and spirit him away to bed, forgetting about dinner. But Scorpius won’t let him, swatting his chest and laughing, fending him off and wrestling until they both end up somehow in the kitchen and Harry is shoved into a chair.

Dinner is as brilliant as he thought it might be.

The sex after is even better.

“I might be falling in love with you,” Scorpius confesses in a whisper against the skin of Harry’s throat. He peppers soft kisses there, distracting Harry with his touch.

Harry captures his mouth and rolls up over him, bodies pressed together, rubbing, stroking, wanting and needing. It saves him from having to answer, because he doesn’t think he might be falling… he’s afraid he has already done so.

#

Scorpius sits on the sofa in his own flat and stares at his hands. They are slender, with small palms and long, delicate fingers, nails bitten down to the quick. If he looks carefully he can see the scars: tiny and thin, spidering across the soft skin of his wrist as if the cracks in his skin were lit with silver. They are faint, and no one other than him knows that they are there.

He closes his hands, clenching them tightly, and promises himself that it will not happen again.

It can’t.

It _won’t_.

He has Harry now, after all. He has Harry, and everything will be absolutely perfect because of that.

#

“You look gorgeous.” Harry catches Scorpius’ hands, bringing them both to his lips. He nips at the tips of his fingers, grinning when Scorpius cracks a small smile.

“It’s my first time here with you.” Scorpius glances at the door to the ballroom. His smile grows slowly possessive, just the way Harry likes it.

He pulls Scorpius close, one hand at his waist, fingers splaying. His touch slips down to his arse, cupping it as he tugs him closer yet. Harry kisses him then, slow and lingering. “They’re going to love you,” he murmurs. “You are so perfect. You know every step of the social dance. They can’t rattle you. There is absolutely nothing they can do to come between us, and they won’t dare say a word against the bloke with the Head Auror.”

“Potter.”

Harry’s head snaps up at that voice, that halfway-to-amused drawl that makes his lover tense. “Malfoy,” he says quietly, and nods to the man and his wife. He tries to say _it’s okay_ with his eyes, one hand coming up to cup Scorpius’ cheek, but his lover’s eyes are closed.

“Scorpius, you should greet your mother.” Malfoy’s voice snaps sharply, expecting obedience. Astoria’s expression remains carefully bland, her hand tucked into the crook of her husband’s arm, waiting.

“Of course.”

Harry watches the mask fall into place, the Malfoy calm that steals into Scorpius’ features before he turns around to offer a quiet smile.

“Mother. Father.” Scorpius inclines his head politely, and gestures to the ballroom. “Would you do us the honor of accompanying us inside?”

One pale eyebrow rises, and Malfoy’s hand over Astoria’s clenches tightly, silencing her before she can speak. “I think not,” he says bitingly. “After all, you may be with the Head Auror, but that doesn’t mean that you are not his toy, bought and paid for with trinkets. I raised you for better than this.”

Harry feels Scorpius wilt, and he waits, giving the younger man a chance to defend himself. When he doesn’t, Harry steps in, arm wrapping more tightly around Scorpius’ waist, keeping him close. “I know you’ve never known better, but you don’t need to be a complete prick to your own son,” Harry says sharply. “He’s your blood. Your heir. That hasn’t changed just because he’s with me.”

Malfoy’s smile thins, pointed and nasty. “He may be my blood, but he is not my heir. He is a disappointment. He is a disease that will have no chance to spread the Malfoy name, and for that I am thankful. As for you—” He levels a look at Harry. “What you do is immoral, and that you see fit to flaunt it in front of the entirety of the Wizarding world is beyond words. I will see you ousted from your position and replaced with someone far more suited to such an elevated post.”

Malfoy turns on one heel, robes snapping as he stalks away, Astoria carried with him in his wake.

“I’m a liability,” Scorpius says quietly.

“Don’t think that.” Harry can’t stand to see the apology in his eyes, darkening them from bright silver to the dead depths of drowning water. He frames Scorpius’ face with his hands, brushing kiss after kiss against his cheeks and lips. “I love you, Scorp, and don’t forget that. Your father is a prick who can’t get his mind out of the last century and into this one. No one hates you, and no one else thinks I’m immoral for being with you. They’re glad to see us happy together, and I’m proud to be walking in there with you on my arm.”

The smile Scorpius offers is pale and wan, but after a kiss, and then another, it slowly brightens into something soft that reaches his eyes. “I love you, too,” he finally replies.

Harry wraps his arm around Scorpius and ushers him into the ballroom with him, waving at his mates who smile to see them. He is relieved when they greet Scorpius warmly, with fond hugs of welcome, and he is just as relieved when he sees Scorpius smile in return.

#

Scorpius stands in the cloak room, staring at his hands. He hears a sound and quickly curls his fingers into fists as he turns to face the intruder.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize someone was in here.” Neville Longbottom’s smile is kind, his round face somewhat flushed as he glances past Scorpius.

He’s looking for Harry, Scorpius realizes, and his own fair skin flushes in response to the thought that he might be having a tryst. “Don’t worry, I’m just here for the quiet,” he says with a one-shouldered shrug. The Malfoy mask is slipping back into place, covering the other emotions. He never lets it be dark or severe, not like his father. Simply blank. Proper. Unreadable.

“I, er—” Neville’s voice trails off. “I wouldn’t have been surprised if you and Harry had snuck off. He’s dotty about you, Scorpius. I’d started to think he wouldn’t find anyone that he’d put up with. Or who’d put up with him,” he admitted with a soft laugh. “I’ve never seen him as happy as he is with you.”

Scorpius smiles. Polite. Something more than bland but less than pleased. Scorpius can’t show that he doesn’t believe Neville. “I’m sure he’s been happy before.”

“Not as much as he is now.” Neville starts collecting heavy outer robes, laying them over his arm one by one. One each for himself, his wife Hannah, and his two eldest children; Scorpius had seen the entire Longbottom clan at different times during the night. “You’re what, twenty-six years younger than him? It’s like he spent his whole life waiting for you, and everything’s brilliant now that you’ve come along.”

Neville cocks his head, listening to the voice calling him and a slow smile starts, fond. “And that’s my own better half.” He claps his hand on Scorpius’ shoulder. “I’m glad you’ve come along to make our Harry smile. Never thought it’d be a Malfoy, but seems like you’re just the right bloke for him.”

Scorpius sinks down to sit on a bench beneath the robes, his knees weak and wobbling. Is he a liability or the thing Harry’s been waiting for all his life? The weight is heavy on his thin shoulders, and he worries that he is somehow both at the same time.

It is too much. There are too many risks, and Scorpius knows he will fail again. He always does. He has spent a lifetime disappointing his father, and now he is afraid that he will disappoint Harry. He cannot be good enough. He knows this; his father has spent years telling him so. But he _wants_ to be good enough for Harry. He wants to be worthy of Harry.

There are voices raised in greeting as Harry meets the Longbottoms, and in the rumble of conversation Scorpius hears his own name invoked. He can’t move just yet, arms wrapped around his center, fingernails digging against his skin to leave bright red half-moon impressions. He scrapes them down, gritting his teeth at the sharp, bright pain but oh _Merlin_ , it’s a distraction from the thoughts that threaten to overwhelm his mind. He digs in deeply at the end, knowing he can’t puncture his skin, but he’s left bright white scrapes rimmed in warm red along his skin, and he feels the low thrum of blood flowing to the not-quite-wounds.

He takes a deep breath, holding it, focusing on that warmth in his arms before letting it out. He captures his outer robes, shrugging into them before collecting Harry’s, the sleeves covering the evidence of his little breakdown. Properly clad, he is perfect once more, exactly what Harry expects.

Scorpius steps out of the cloak room, smiling as he greets everyone and kisses Harry.

When Harry looks at him as if he is perfection personified, Scorpius only kisses him again, because of course he is exactly that. For Harry, he couldn’t be anything less.

#

They’ve been together for nine months now, but Harry still worries that he is rushing things. He walks into his room, spotting clothes littered around it, waiting to be put away. Scorpius stands by the bed, fingertips resting against the mattress, staring at something Harry doesn’t see.

It isn’t the first time Harry has seen Scorpius daydream, but it’s one of the first times he’s worried about it. He slips behind him, sliding arms around Scorpius’ waist, pressing a kiss to his neck. “Everything all right?” he murmurs, kissing his skin again, relieved when Scorpius leans back into him.

“Everything’s perfect,” Scorpius says. “Why? Are you rethinking this?” He turns to face Harry, staying close within the circle of his arms. “I don’t have to move in if you’re not ready.”

“I was worrying over whether you’re ready,” Harry says with a rueful smile. “I don’t want to rush things, but at the same time, this place feels right when you’re in it. I love coming home to find you already here. I want a life with you, Scorpius. I want you in _my_ life.” And eventually he would make it permanent, and offer to bond. But Harry knows _that_ would be too soon.

But something about Scorpius makes Harry want to rush in and leap without looking. As if he needs it all _now_ , because he has waited so long for him, and he wants to have everything he can as soon as he can.

“We’re not rushing anything,” Scorpius assures him.

Still, Harry watches as Scorpius turns away, and a shadow slips into his expression. Scorpius reaches for a set of robes and looks at them, but doesn’t put them away.

For a moment, he looks lost.

Harry gently takes the robes from him and waves his wand, sending them to the closet. “We’ll share space,” he says. “There’s plenty of it, and if we need more, we’ll expand. But I think we’ll fit as it is. Here, let me take care of this.”

It takes only a moment and the clothes are neatly placed where they belong. Harry doesn’t ask, just does, wanting things in place and complete. As the last item folds itself and settles into the bureau, Scorpius sinks to sit on the bed, still staring. Harry crawls up over him, straddling him as he nudges him back.

“Time to take care of some firsts,” Harry murmurs against Scorpius’ neck. He teases at the skin until Scorpius arches beneath him, pressing back against him as he groans.

“This isn’t a first.” Scorpius’ laugh is soft and low, nuzzling back against Harry until Harry has to groan as well.

“Yes it is,” Harry insists. “It’s the first time after you’ve moved in. It’s the first time in _our_ bed, rather than _my_ bed. It’s exactly the first we need.”

“Are you going to insist we do it on the kitchen counters next?”

Harry laughs. “Maybe after we cook dinner. Might get messy if we do it before.”

Conversation ends in a flurry of clothes disappearing, followed soon by groans and sighs, and Harry crying out Scorpius’ name once he’s buried deep inside his lover. When it’s done, Harry waves a hand and the comforter covers them as they relax. “This is definitely the right thing to do,” he murmurs.

“Of course it is,” Scorpius says. “Have we ever been wrong?”

“I love you,” Harry says with a smile.

There is a long pause, and Harry wonders for a moment if Scorpius has fallen asleep. The words are a soft exhalation when they finally come. “I love you, too.”

#

The owl comes when Scorpius steps out of the shower. It taps on the window sharply with its beak, and for a moment, Scorpius doesn’t want to let it in. But he knows from long experience that if he tries to ignore it, the owl will only wait and become more impatient. So he pads naked to the window and yanks the sash up, taking what the owl drops before it flies away.

There is no note, only a rolled up page from _Wicked Witches_. He unrolls it slowly. Warily. He knows that owl, and knows this has come from his father even though there is no note. He suspects what he will see.

Himself, in three pictures with Harry. One in the back corner of a Muggle restaurant as Harry offers a bite of food and Scorpius nips his fingers. The picture lingers long enough to capture the expression on Harry’s face as Scorpius’ tongue sweeps over the pad of his finger, teasing him. The second shows them pausing to snog while walking outside Harry’s home. The third… Scorpius can’t imagine how it was taken. He is positive that they were alone in one of the Ministry bathrooms, caught up in the moment of something more than a snog before the photograph goes dark.

Scorpius doesn’t need to read the article, but he does anyway. Words leap out at him.

Morally corrupt.

Indulgent.

Hedonistic.

_Is this the man we want as our Head Auror?_

Scorpius touches the page as if the text might change, but it does not.

It is vitriolic. Furious. It rails against Harry’s behaviour and disparages Scorpius for dragging him into the morass of corruption.

It calls for Harry to be replaced.

Scorpius can’t breathe. He struggles, gasping, and only manages to do so when there is a step in the hallway. He can’t let Harry see this, can’t let Harry know. He is ruining Harry, and that cannot be allowed. With a flick of his wand, the page lights on fire, and by the time Harry steps into the room, Scorpius is shaking a hand that has been singed from the now vanished flame.

“What were you doing?” Harry takes Scorpius’ hand and spreads the fingers, frowning as he inspects the skin.

Scorpius shrugs, and tries to tug his hand free. “It’s fine, Harry. I just got a bit overenthusiastic on a grooming spell.”

He can tell that Harry doesn’t believe him, but Scorpius kisses him until the questions are left behind. Then they must dress and eat and try not to be late to work. Harry doesn’t mention it again, but Scorpius can’t forget what he read. Can’t forget that he is hurting Harry by being here, but he can’t let Harry go and be happy.

#

Harry is waiting when Scorpius arrives to meet him for lunch. He flicks his wand and the door to his office closes; Harry doesn’t miss the way Scorpius jumps at the sound.

“It’s okay,” he reassures Scorpius. “No one thinks—”

“Yes they do,” Scorpius says. Then he goes quiet, and Harry knows he was right. Scorpius knew about the article. That was probably what he had burned this morning, and Harry can guess how Scorpius saw it in the first place.

“It doesn’t matter what they think,” Harry tells him. He catches Scorpius’ hands in his own and kisses the fingertips. “That article wasn’t talking about reality. I’m fine. No one wants me to stop being Head Auror.”

“Someone does.” Scorpius raises his gaze to meet Harry’s, quiet and sure. “They wouldn’t have written the article otherwise. I’m not good for you, Harry. I’m damaging your reputation.”

“No, you’re not.” One kiss to start, lightly pressed against Scorpius’ mouth. “Listen to me, Scorp. Before I met you I was lifeless. I worked eighty hours a week, and if I had some extra free time, I’d work that too. I never went out unless it was to some function for work, or because someone made me come to a social event. But I didn’t want to be there, and I left as soon as possible. I was turning into a hermit.”

Another kiss, this one longer as Harry’s hands slide down Scorpius’ back to gather him in as he continues to murmur his story. Words stroke along skin, tasting the essence of his lover as Harry speaks. “I love you, and I need you in my life,” he murmurs. “There is nothing more important to me than you, and nothing that they can do to change my mind. They can’t hurt me, Scorp. It’s just words, and they’re words that don’t mean anything. It’s part of being Head Auror, that people talk shite about me once in a while.”

Harry remembers a time when they ran photographs of him and a lovely leggy blonde he happened to meet while on assignment in Italy. The articles fabricated an entire affair when the actuality had been an acquaintance that ended when Harry helped carry her luggage into the hotel and parted ways. Harry knows that the press can be a terrible enemy.

Scorpius doesn’t look at him.

“Scorp.” Harry touches his cheek, nudges him. Waits for him to open his eyes. “It’s going to be all right.”

“You might be better off without me.”

Harry shivers at that thought, at the idea of having to go back to a world without Scorpius. He kisses him thoroughly, turning him against his desk, hands sliding inside his robes. After a moment, Scorpius kisses back.

Their joining is frantic and rushed, half-undressed and sprawled across the desk. Harry refuses to let go until he is sure that Scorpius knows how very much he is loved and needed. He has waited too long to lose Scorpius now.

#

Three weeks later, Scorpius sits on the edge of the bed.

Harry left for work an hour ago, and Scorpius should be leaving now. He is still an apprentice in his solicitor’s office, and he has been late three times in the last two weeks. If he is late one more time, he will be given a written warning. If it continues, he might lose his job.

Scorpius can’t bring himself to care.

The alarm spell rings again, and he looks at it, frowning. How can it possibly be half nine? This is later than he thought, but he had set the alarm after the morning two days ago had somehow slipped to ten before he noticed how late it had become.

Minutes tick by as he stares at the clock, watching the hand move in tiny motions forward.

He hears the fire roar to life in the living room, and a voice call out. “Malfoy! Are you planning on getting your arse to work today? It’s going on ten. Bridger says if you’re not here in fifteen minutes, you’ll be docked pay today.”

“I’m coming,” Scorpius calls back, voice flat. “Not feeling well this morning. Just have to get through the shower, then I’ll be there. All right?”

The sound of the fire fades, and Scorpius pushes himself to his feet. He sheds his clothes and walks, naked, into the bathroom. He twists the shower to scalding hot, enough to make his skin raw and red in seconds after he steps under the steady stream. He scrubs himself with the flannel, rubbing until it burns. Lately it seems to be the only thing that he _feels_ when he isn’t with Harry. It is as if Harry is real, and everything else fades away until Scorpius simply ceases to exist.

He reaches blindly for the razor, a Muggle habit he picked up from Harry, rather than using a spell to remove his beard. He lathers his face and reaches out to wipe the mirror that hangs in the shower. He scrapes the hair from his face with quick efficiency, stopping only when he nicks his chin. He stares at the blood in his reflection, feels the sting.

His gaze drops to his forearm, and he wonders what that would be like. He sets the razor to the inside of his arm and draws it across quickly, once. The pain is quick. Bright. Sharp. It _hurts_ and he gasps with the sensation of it, the world coming back into sudden focus around him.

It anchors him here, and pushes the fog from his mind.

He does it twice more before he stops and rinses the blood from the razor. Then he lets the water wash the evidence away, except for the thin lines left behind, and the burn Scorpius can still feel.

He dresses carefully for work, making sure the marks are covered.

He likes the razor, likes the different feel of it, better than the spell he used to shred his palms once upon a time. It is deliberate. Planned. And it works so well.

He leaves for the office well rooted in this time and this world. He can do this. He can make it through another day.

#

Harry comes through the Floo, brushing himself off as he straightens up. His brow furrows; something’s wrong in the flat but he can’t tell what. He sniffs the air. Nothing’s cooking for dinner. A glance at the coat rack spots Scorpius’ robes hung in their usual place.

“Scorpius?” Harry calls out, walking through the kitchen, heading for the bedroom. “Want me to head out and grab some takeaway? If you’re too tired to—” He stops as he steps into the bedroom. “Scorp—?”

He doesn’t know what to say after that, because Scorpius sits on the edge of the bed. Just sits, staring at the floor, still wearing the pyjama bottoms he slept in the night before. Scorpius doesn’t look up when Harry sits next to him, wraps his hand around Scorpius’ hand.

“Have you been here all day?” Harry asks softly. “Didn’t you have work?”

Scorpius blinks. “I was sacked.”

_Sacked?_ Harry’s brow furrows. “When? Your alarm was set for this morning. I thought you were working on the Blake case.”

“Not anymore.” One shoulder shrugs. “They sacked me this morning.”

Harry entangles their fingers together and lifts Scorpius’ hand to his lips. “What happened? You loved that job.” Although now that Harry thinks about it, he can’t remember Scorpius talking about it as much recently. He used to talk about all the cases, but dinners lately were all about his own Auror business. For all Harry knows, the Blake case might be from weeks ago.

Silence.

“Scorpius.” Harry waits until his lover looks at him. The expression on Scorpius’ face catches him unaware: remote, distant. Empty. Eyes hollowed out and sunken, cheekbones standing out. He hasn’t been eating. Harry can’t help but worry, kissing his fingertips again. “Have you just been sitting here all day? You’re probably hungry. I’ll get something put together and you’ll feel better after. I promise, I won’t poison you.”

It’s a long standing joke between them that Scorpius can cook and Harry can burn, but this time, Scorpius doesn’t laugh. His gaze drops from Harry’s to look at the floor.

“It’s been a long day,” Scorpius finally says. “A long week.”

Harry’s mind supplies the extension to that: a long month. One month since they moved in together and everything turned upside down for both of them. “Scorpius, you need to see someone. Talk to someone. If it’s—” _If it’s me._ Harry can’t even finish the sentence, dreading the idea that it could be _them_ that’s the problem. “I love you, Scorpius. I don’t want to lose you. And I feel like…”

“It’s not you.” Scorpius offers a tired smile. “I’m just exhausted, Harry. Let me get a little sleep and wake me up when it’s dinner time. Why don’t you get something from that Thai place around the corner? You’re particularly fond of them.”

“Will you see someone?” Harry asks again. When Scorpius tries to tug his hands free to lie down, Harry holds on, as if by letting go he might lose him completely. “I mean it, Scorpius. Please. I’ll make an appointment for you.”

“Of course.” Scorpius acquiesces, sliding closer to press his mouth to Harry’s. For a moment, it seems as if nothing has changed, then his mouth goes slack as he pulls away and lies down. 

Harry can only look at him, terrified and wondering how he missed that they have come to this. He wants to know what he has done wrong, what has happened here, and how he can fix it. Because he is the saviour of the Wizarding world, isn’t he? Dumbledore once told him that his heart was the secret to winning a war. Surely that means that now he can save the one person he loves most.

#

“This will help.” Healer Marsden presses a bottle into Scorpius’ hand, wrapping his fingers tightly around the smooth glass. “This is enough for the first week, and I’ve got a script for you to stop off and collect more from the potion shop. It’s a restricted potion, and I’ll need to monitor you closely while you take it. But under your circumstances, I think we require giving you a bit of a boost before we can look into some more long term methods.”

Scorpius peers at the bottle; the liquid inside is mostly blue with swirls of green and iridescent silver. “What does it do?” He asks because Harry will ask, and because he knows he ought to care, not because he actually does care.

“One sip with your morning tea, and one before bed,” Marsden explains. “It helps regulate your emotions so you won’t feel so blue.”

Blue emotions. Blue potion. There is a faint flicker of a smile as that momentarily seems amusing. “But will it make me feel something else?”

Marsden smiles at that. “Some folks say it makes them feel like they can take on the world. That’s why it’s so highly regulated. If it’s taken by the wrong people, they can spin out of control, slipping into a manic state. If you find yourself supercharged, contact me and stop taking it immediately. We’ll find something else for you to try.”

Scorpius can’t even imagine what that would be like, to be supercharged. It sounds exhausting, as if he would wear himself out in moments from too much activity. His fingers tighten on the smooth glass for a moment before he drops it into his pocket. He stands and offers his hand, years of polite society drilled into him and habit now, even when thinking seems too difficult. “Thank you, Healer Marsden. And I’m certain Harry will thank you as well.”

And he does. As soon as the door opens, Harry is on his feet in the waiting room, gathering Scorpius close into his arms and shutting out the outside world. He protects Scorpius. Shields him. Cares for him.

That is why Scorpius is here, why he crawled out of bed and put on presentable clothes. Why he made conversation and tried to speak intelligently. Why he even bothered. Scorpius loves Harry and doesn’t want to disappoint him. He wants to be what Harry needs him to be, and Harry says he needs him to be well.

_Well._

Scorpius isn’t even sure what that is anymore. Is it when he cooks and cleans and takes care of Harry? Is it when he goes out for work and does something productive for society? Is it when he dresses nicely and takes Harry’s arm, shown off as a beautiful young lover at a high powered Ministry function?

He hears the murmur of voices around him as Harry and the Healer speak, but they mean nothing to him, lost as he is in his own thoughts.

The trip home passes by in a haze of motion and a twisting of his ears during apparition. His stomach turns while he sits at the table, and Harry prepares tea. “Healer Marsden said that for today, you could take your potion with lunch, and before bed, and then start the proper times tomorrow.” He takes the bottle from Scorpius and tilts it, letting a single droplet fall into the tea. It spreads like a rainbow ripple upon the surface before it disappears.

Scorpius takes a cautious sip, but tastes nothing. He hears Harry sigh in relief, and the clink of a bottle being placed in a cabinet. He is doing what Harry wants most, so he does it again with another sip, letting the heat warm him from the inside out. Eyes close and he sways there, letting time pass him by.

“I have to go back to work.”

Scorpius opens his eyes, blinking into the light of the kitchen. Harry is still here? He shouldn’t be here. Scorpius doesn’t want Harry to be sacked as well, if they can sack the Head Auror, so he smiles and hopes he is reassuring. “I’ll be fine,” he says. “I’ll just finish my tea.”

“Don’t let it get cold,” Harry admonishes him, but it is teasing, and Scorpius can hear and feel the smile as Harry’s lips brush his cheek.

Scorpius takes another sip as Harry leaves, then he drifts again. When he opens his eyes, the tea is cold and the sun has slipped higher into the light of midday.

He hasn’t finished the tea. He knows he needs to finish the tea.

It’ll only take a little bit. Just a tiny hint of sensation, something to prick his senses. Keep him rooted so he doesn’t drift again.

The razor is too far away, so he uses his spell again. He has gotten better with it in the last week. Slower. The more careful he is the more it feels like the razor does. The more it seems _real_. He draws the wand tip over the surface of his skin, watching the blood well up in intricate patterns. The burn follows, then the warmth, and for a moment he floats again. Breath catches as he watches the path of the blood droplets, and he wonders—does he know this well enough to do it wandless?

He stares at his palms, both of them, and whispers the words to the spell. Tiny rivers of blood begin to flow, erupting in a sudden rush of pain that makes him cry out and clench his hands against it.

When he catches his breath, he warms his tea, leaving a bloody handprint against the mug. He can clean that later. Right now, he promised Harry he would finish the tea, and if he accomplishes nothing else all day, he will do just that.

Later, he can drift again. Until then, the pain will keep him sharp.

#

Harry thinks things are better.

He moves around the kitchen, gathering breakfast together so he can eat with Scorpius in their room. Porridge is split between two bowls and brown sugar added along with a generous handful of apples to each. He pours two glasses of pumpkin juice, and two cups of tea. One cup is green and the other is red, easy to tell apart when Harry tips the drop of potion into the green cup for Scorpius.

He puts everything on a tray and levitates it with him into their room. He climbs up onto the bed and settles in next to Scorpius before Summoning the tray.

It has been a few days and things are definitely better, even though Scorpius still doesn’t wake and slip from bed when Harry’s alarm sounds each morning. There is colour in his cheeks, and his eyes are less sunken. And this is a chance to spoil him with breakfast in bed every day, if he wishes, and he does wish.

“Porridge?” Scorpius asks, words muffled by the pillow. “Did you burn it?”

“Not at all,” Harry says. “Hermione taught me a trick to making it perfectly smooth, and it doesn’t even stick to the pot so it’s an easy cleanup.” A Vanishing spell would do the same, he supposes, but Harry likes to do things the Muggle way. A faint frown then. Is it the Muggle way that’s bothering Scorpius? No, nothing’s bothering him. He’s better. Harry can tell.

Scorpius sits up slowly and takes the bowl from Harry. He smiles after tasting it, and something sparkles in his silvered eyes. “This is good. Have I slept a month away while you’ve taken lessons?”

The joke is almost too close to the truth, and Harry forces the answering smile. “I’ve been practicing for a while. I just haven’t been brave enough to test with another person yet.”

Scorpius takes two more big bites, and half the bowl is gone before Harry can blink. “It’s good,” he says. “Come here. Let me say a proper thank you.” Scorpius nudges the tray out of the way and reaches for Harry.

“Your tea,” Harry protests. Out of everything, that potion is the most important part of breakfast. Food is a necessity, yes, but that potion will help with everything. Scorpius needs to drink his tea.

“Tea later,” Scorpius says, kissing Harry to silence them both. “You first,” he murmurs between kisses.

Harry could lose himself in this and does, wanting to believe that everything is perfect. The taste of Scorpius’ mouth is something he can drown in, memorizing it, drinking it in with each kiss acting like a blessed drug. He presses Scorpius into the mattress and is met with a groan and a press of hips, rubbing against him.

This is what he wants, what he needs. Harry has Scorpius and everything is perfect.

#

His tea is cold.

Harry left a few hours ago, and Scorpius has just awoken. He could warm the tea, but that would mean coming out from under warm covers where he is cocooned.

He knows Harry wants him to drink the tea. Needs him to drink that tea.

And Scorpius tries, he truly does, but most mornings the tea goes down the drain after it cools, and most evenings he finds himself still sitting up after Harry has fallen asleep and again the tea finds the drain. 

He tries. 

He just fails.

Scorpius fails at everything. He feels useless. Even this potion, which makes most people feel as if they could conquer the world just makes him feel… numb. He fails at being like everyone else. He has even failed at being properly depressed.

Pain is the only thing that slices through the numb outer shell of his life. It is better than any potion, and he can use it as much as he wants. There is no dosage, and no requirement save that he be alone.

He spreads his fingers and closes his eyes, sighing when he feels skin split and the warmth of spilled blood. He lets the spell trail up his arm, lets it spider across the backs of his hands until his skin is marble lit with bright red veins. There is beauty in pain, and there is life in him yet.

He sits up and looks at the bed, a sick feeling in his gut as he sees the blood against the white sheets. He gathers them up quickly and shoves them into the back of the closet, casting a spell to hide them, and another to remake the bed.

He will shower today. He will be clean when Harry comes home, and he will make dinner. And that will show Harry how much better he is, and how perfect he can be.

It is just two things to do, after all.

And when he is tired after the shower, exhausted by putting on clean clothes and tying his too long hair back away from his face, he forces himself to go down to the kitchen. The tea goes down the drain, the dishes into the sink to wait for Harry. And a small slice appears on his palm, red drops falling into the sink to swirl with the tea over white porcelain. One small cut to feel alive. One small prick to remind him that he is here, that he is alive.

One small thing to feel.

#

“Everything all right?” Neville drops into the empty seat next to Harry in the coffee shop. “Haven’t seen you out in a bit. Hannah says I oughtn’t worry, that it’s just that the two of you are setting up house and all and not likely to go out much at night.” Neville pinks up as he alludes to those evening activities.

But Harry knows Neville ought to worry. He’d be happy if that were it, if he and Scorpius were spending every evening in bed, doing whatever it was that might come to mind. So he shrugs at Neville’s words and takes a sip of his coffee. “We’re settling in,” he says, the words trailing off as he twists the cup in his hands.

“But?” Neville prompts.

Harry gives him a rueful smile. “But it’s not just that. Scorpius has been—” He struggles to find the words for it. “He hasn’t been well.”

Neville’s brown eyes are kind, waiting in silence for Harry to continue. But it takes time to gather words, to figure out how to phrase it.

“I took him to a mind Healer,” Harry finally admits quietly. “He lost his job, Nev. I asked them, after it was done, and he’d been written up for being late three times, and that’s not counting the times before they gave him official notice. Then he just stopped going in. I came home and he was sitting there, like he hadn’t moved since I’d left in the morning.”

“Did the Healer help?” Neville’s tone is reasonable and calm, and it helps center Harry. Helps him breathe more easily because if Neville isn’t panicking, then Harry has someone to lean on. Someone to listen.

“Yes,” Harry says, because there is the potion. “No,” he adds with a sigh. “I don’t know. Scorpius is taking the potion he was given, but I’m not sure it’s helping. He says he’s fine, though, and I can’t make him go back to the Healer. I can’t drag him in there if he thinks he’s okay.”

Neville takes a slow drink of his coffee, and Harry imagines he can see the methodically slow wheels turning in his mind. Some people think Neville isn’t intelligent, but Harry knows better. Neville makes certain of everything he does, so he doesn’t make mistakes like he used to when he rushed. He trusts Neville to think through things and come out the other side with an answer. A good answer. It won’t be what Hermione might do, but it is also safer, in so many ways, than taking a problem to his over-achieving best mate.

“You’re right,” Neville finally says. “But if you’re worried, you ought to tell him so. He might not go for himself, but he’ll go for you. He loves you.” He smiles slightly. Knowingly. “And you love him. He’s been good for you, Harry. I told him that.”

“You did?” Harry laughs softly. “And what did he say to that?”

“He didn’t believe me.” Neville gives him a look. “He’d believe you, Harry, so you’re the one who needs to make sure he knows how important he is to you. Tell him. And tell him you want him to get help. Maybe he’ll do it then.”

Harry nods. He can talk to the Healer, see if he can get a different potion for Scorpius to try. And he’ll tell him how much he means to him. Not that he’s never said I love you. He says it often. But maybe Scorpius hasn’t really heard it, not properly.

So Harry will make sure he hears it. Tonight.

#

Water rains down overhead, washing away the dirt and sweat. Cleansing Scorpius. He sinks down to sit in the tub, letting water pour down, running in rivulets over his skin and into his eyes. It stings, but it is not enough. He cannot feel enough.

He wants to be well.

He listened when Harry spoke last night, as they curled together in the warmth of their large bed. He took in every word, and he heard the pain in Harry’s voice. 

And Scorpius knew that he was broken. Terribly, horribly, irrevocably broken. Scorpius was shattered into a thousand pieces that nothing could piece back together.

But he can try.

So he takes the razor and slowly draws it across the top of his thigh. The first cut is shallow, just a quick bite and sting, open before he knows it.

But it is not enough, and he digs deeper, crying out as muscle separates beneath the skin.

The pain is good. The pain is real. It is the only thing he has left that is under his control.

The razor is still not enough. He cannot go deep enough. He cannot reach inside himself to dig out the numbness and let it go. Unless he can rid himself of that other self, that failing self, he cannot heal for Harry. So he must go deeper and bleed the poison out.

Scorpius leans back, head tilted against the edge of the tub. He rests his hands on his bent knees, palms up. The spell comes easily now, perfected without a wand, and he cries out softly as his skin splits. Threads of blood spider down his arms from shoulder to wrist, and it is still not enough.

Deeper.

He must go deeper.

He whispers the spell again, reveling in the sharp bite of pain and the slow calm that comes after. Blood drips over his skin and into the tub, mixing with the water and swirling down the drain.

Yes, that is it, that is what he needs. Wash the poison out. All of it.

If he can only let it all out, he will be perfect. He will feel perfect.

His voice is hoarse as he calls the spell loudly this time. Emphatically. He is making a _choice_ and he is sure it is the right one. Fresh wounds erupt, slicing deep down to the bone and Scorpius sighs.

He floats, his mind caught in a haze.

It feels wonderful to do this, and to know that _finally_ he does the right thing. To know that he is letting go. He will be cleansed down to the bone, perfection in stillness, and Harry will no longer need to worry about him. Scorpius will no longer be a liability to the Head Auror. And that is what Harry needs.

Scorpius knows this, that what Harry needs is to be free of him. He has finally found the right path and for once, he will not fail.

He has saved his palms for last, and he struggles to focus on them. He calls the spell one more time and watches faint scars come into bright relief, opening for the blood to stream out. The water has turned red around him, so very dark and red against his pale skin. He is beautiful and bloodless, the poison gone.

His eyes close, and Scorpius gives in to the darkness. Pain gives way to calm which then gives way to bliss.

Scorpius floats, and is gone.

#

“Scorpius!” Harry breezes in through the Floo, quickly shrugging out of his robes and tossing them over the back of the sofa. He’s been looking forward to getting home all day, to seeing his lover and taking him out for a brilliant meal as a surprise. The night before they’d stayed up late talking, then a long, sweet snog in the dark before Harry rolled Scorpius over and teased him until he responded with a groan, and they lost themselves in each other. It had been almost like when they first were together and couldn’t get enough of each other. Now Harry wants to bring back that feeling again by taking Scorpius to the place where they’d had their first date.

He pauses at the silence that answers his call. Then he catches the faint sound of water running and he starts to smile. He can surprise Scorpius in the shower, and they can start the evening with a long slow shag before they go out. They have no reservations, no plans, no worries about time. Tonight will be all about them.

Harry sheds his clothes on his way to the bathroom, sending them to a pile on the bedroom floor with a flick of his wand. He pulls open the door, eyes closed against the expected steam. A wash of cold air sweeps over him, and he shivers, blinking. “Scorpius?” The curtain is pulled, and he hears the water running without any heat, but sees no movement.

Something twists in his gut at the strangeness of it. Fear coils sharply. He steps forward, one hand on the translucent curtain before he yanks it back.

Harry falls to the floor, the pain in his knees a distant thought as he reaches out to gather in the chill body that lies in the tub. Skin is so pale it might be marbled, shredded with no sign of blood. He hears someone shouting, feels the rough pull in his throat, and realizes it is himself, screaming for help. He kisses Scorpius’ neck, his cold lips. He seeks a pulse and casts _Enervate_ to revive him. Every bit of field medicine he knows, he applies between screams, begging someone, anyone, to come to them.

But nothing works.

Nothing changes.

Scorpius is still in his arms, heavy and limp. Harry pries his eyes open and they stare sightless, cold and silvery pale. Dead. Everything that was Scorpius has fled, and a choked sob rises in Harry’s throat.

This can’t be real.

This can’t be happening.

In time, that part of him that is Auror-trained manages to somehow carry Scorpius to their bed, laying him out gently and covering him with the comforter. Harry sends his Patronus to Ron and Hermione, and to Neville. Then he lies down next to Scorpius and holds him, whispering again just how much he loves him, and everything they had been going to do that night. 

Harry whispers hopes and dreams. He gives Scorpius his heart and when he runs out of words he closes his eyes and lies there, holding him, as if he could somehow anchor him here with Harry.

It is Neville who comes first, touching Harry’s shoulder with one hand to get his attention, then holding him while he sobs, heartbroken. It is Neville who sends Hermione for a Potion of Dreamless Sleep, and who helps Harry put on his pyjamas before holding the vial to Harry’s lips. It is Neville who strokes his hair and holds him until Harry slips away into sleep and dreams of Scorpius.

#

It isn’t hard to see that his friends won’t leave Harry on his own. No matter where he is, one of them stands by him. Hermione tangles her fingers with his when she is there, holding on tight as if he might slip away from her. Ron talks constantly, a steady stream about the day at the office or the case they were working on or even about family and home and what his children have been doing after Hogwarts. Neville simply stands there, solid and warm, his shoulder not quite touching Harry’s.

Harry appreciates them, he does, but at the same time it is cloying and almost too much. But he understands why they do it, and he tries to assure them that nothing is going to happen. But the words don’t come, his mind as empty of anything coherent as it has been since he found Scorpius dead and pale in their tub.

As he stands by the coffin, he grips the edge of it, staring at the face of his lover. “I’m okay,” he whispers. “I just—I need some time, Nev. Please.”

Neville touches his shoulder, a comforting weight, before he steps away and finally gives Harry the peace he so desires.

The coffin holds him up, his knees weak and wobbling. He wants to cling to Scorpius, to fall to his knees and sob all over again. But he can’t do that here, not in front of everyone wanting to give their respects. And there are more than Harry expected, classmates from Hogwarts for both himself and Scorpius. Hundreds of people have passed through, murmuring their sympathies before escaping.

Harry knows they all mean well, but he hears the undertone of pity side by side with thanks that they have not suffered, that it is not _their_ son/lover/friend who lies there, cold and gone. He nods to each and thanks them for their thoughts and waits for them to move on.

“Potter.” 

The low voice comes from too close for comfort, and Harry takes a step sideways, putting distance between himself and the speaker. “Malfoy,” he replies quietly. “I’m sorry for your loss.” Murmured words, the right thing to say, and he expects the proper response.

He doesn’t get it.

“You should be,” Malfoy says dryly, tone soft with warning. “You drove him to this, Potter. He was fine when he was in Hogwarts, fine when he was home with us. This is entirely because of you.”

Harry feels a fist clench around his heart, stealing his breath away as Malfoy echoes his own thoughts. Fingers grip the edge of the coffin as he sways.

“I see you understand,” Malfoy murmurs. “You already knew. You know the blame for Scorpius’ death falls on your shoulders. He was never good enough for you.”

Never good enough.

Not good enough.

And Harry remembers one of his earliest conversations with Scorpius. They stood just outside the French doors on a terrace gaily lit with paper lanterns and twinkling star spells. They spoke of how difficult it was to prove themselves: Harry to relatives who had never loved him, and Scorpius to his own father. _I will never be good enough for him_ , Scorpius had said, and Harry had tugged him close to kiss him for the first time. _You are good enough for me_ , Harry had told him, and he had meant every word.

“He was never good enough for you,” Harry said slowly. “Nothing he could do would make you happy. You hated that he wanted to give his skills to the less fortunate, rather than becoming a solicitor to further the Malfoy name and fortune. You hated that he was gay, and you forced him out of your house for dating me. He tried, all the time, to be what you wanted, Malfoy. To me, he was perfect. He was brilliant, kind, imaginative, and loving. But you taught him that he was never good enough, and he always had to be more.”

The words wind up, coming more quickly until they tumble like a rushing waterfall over stones at the end. Harry’s hands are clenched into fists and he faces Malfoy, one hand raised. Malfoy has his wand in hand, slightly raised as if he waits for Harry to attack first. Both glare, both wait.

A large hand covers Harry’s and he is pulled back against Neville while Hermione steps in front of him.

“This isn’t the place or the time, Malfoy,” she snaps. “You need to leave each other alone. You’re grieving, we know that. Punching each other in the face isn’t going to help that.”

“I’d feel better,” Harry muttered. And he would. For the first time in days he feels alive, and that rush of fury boils in his blood. He gets the feeling Malfoy would feel better, too, and that only makes him smile, unable to resist taunting, “Maybe you ought to’ve told him how you felt before now. Maybe he’d be alive.”

Malfoy takes a step forward and Neville holds Harry in place while Hermione pushes Malfoy back.

“I loved him,” Malfoy snarls.

“D—” Harry cuts off, muffled by Neville’s hand over his mouth. But he still wonders, did Malfoy ever say a word of that to Scorpius? How much is his own fault and how much is Malfoy’s, and how much… he hates to think it, but how much of it is just the way Scorpius’ mind worked? Should he have done more? Helped him? Dragged him back to the Healer?

Harry’s shoulders slump under the weight of his thoughts.

“You should get home, Harry,” Hermione suggests. “You need some time alone.”

“I can’t.” Harry turns back to look at the coffin, reaching out to grip the wood once more. “This is all I’ll get. I can’t leave him yet. Not until they’re going to… to…” He chokes on the words, trying to swallow the tears back.

Three friends are there, pressed close, holding him up and shielding him from view as Harry loses control and sobs again.

He kisses Scorpius’ forehead before they close the coffin, and says his farewell.

“I love you,” he whispers. “Always and forever. I love you.”

He imagines he hears Scorpius’ voice whisper _I love you_ back to him, and he holds the words close to his heart. It is all he has left.

#

Harry awakens slowly, sun slipping between the cracks in the blinds, teasing at his eyelids. He reaches out blindly, patting the pillow and finding only empty space.

Gone.

Seven days now, and it is still a surprise each morning to find no one there. He can smell Scorpius on the sheets, and with his eyes closed and mind still drifting in the haze of sleep, he can sense him in the room. But the reality of Scorpius is gone.

He pulls himself out of bed, padding barefoot to the wardrobe before spelling himself clean. He’d rather shower, but he hasn’t been able to face that room since—since it happened. He casts to make certain his robes are clean and pulls them on as well, then sits down on the bed to put his shoes on.

He still sits there, one shoe on and one shoe off, a half hour later when the Floo springs to life with a rush and he glances up to see who it is.

“Hullo, Harry.” Neville brushes himself off, dropping his outer robes over the back of a chair. Harry pads into the living room to meet him, kicking off the one shoe as he goes. He doesn’t say a word, simply walks past and starts putting water on for tea without asking if he wants any.

It’s tea, after all, and tea heals all ills.

“So you’re the one come to make sure I get into work today?” Harry asks once the water is warming.

“I’m the one come to see how you are,” Neville agrees. “I’m not going to force you to do anything you don’t want to do. I can’t imagine this is easy.”

“It’s not.” Harry pulls down two cups from the cupboard, settling them onto saucers with a force that cracks one of the cups. He has to smile when Neville repairs it without even thinking. “I just… I’m not ready to deal with people. And all that sympathy. And if I stay here I can almost believe he might walk back in.” His gaze drifts to the door, and he swallows roughly, eyes shining.

“Have you left the flat since the funeral?”

Harry offers a wry smile. “No. And I haven’t showered, and I won’t change the sheets. Anything else that Hermione’s going to yell at me for later?”

“Maybe you ought to move.” It’s not an order, not from Neville. He’s not the sort to make definitive statements and boss people around, not like Hermione. And he won’t try to nudge and shuffle and push Harry into what he ought to be doing like Ron would. No, Neville will make suggestions and wait to see how Harry takes them.

It gives Harry space to breathe. To think through things and answer them with his own words. He likes that.

He laughs softly after a moment. “Maybe. If I ever want to shower again. But this place feels like Scorpius. I’m not ready to give that up yet.”

“Eventually,” Neville says, and Harry echoes the sentiment. Eventually, perhaps.

The pot whistles and Harry busies himself pouring two cups. He uses bagged tea, even though he knows no one would approve, but it has always been simplest and most expedient. He holds one cup out to Neville, and for a moment is caught in a memory of Scorpius in the morning, barely awake as Harry handed him the tea.

The cup wavers. Harry’s hand clenches; the cup falls, splashing hot water and weak tea all over the floor as it shatters.

“I don’t think I can fix that.”

Neville’s words are so simple, and yet, so true. Breath shudders in his chest as Harry stares at the shards and realizes that this is his life. Smashed into tiny bits, some pieces so small they can never be reclaimed, and other things have just bled out and are gone. Harry crouches, trying to gather up the pieces, wincing when one cuts his palm.

Neville crouches next to him, shoulder to shoulder, and catches Harry’s hand. “Wait,” he says quietly. He brings out his wand and uses it to gather the pieces together. They form something almost like a cup in the air, and he holds it in position. “I’ve got it, now you transfigure it back together.”

His wandwork is shaky, but Harry does, and a moment later the cup is restored. Neville sets it in Harry’s hands and he looks at it in some surprise. It had been beyond repair.

“Sometimes you can’t do it alone,” Neville reminds him.

“I can’t put the tea back into it,” Harry says, and when Neville nods, Harry is relieved that he understood. And Harry thinks he understands as well. His life has been shattered but that doesn’t mean it’s the end. He has his friends. He has people around him who care for him, and who will help him find a new path and put him back together, one shard at a time. He exhales a ragged breath.

“I loved him.” Harry bows his head, still crouched there on the floor, tears welling up again. “More than anything. More than anyone I’ve ever met. He was my heart, Nev. I feel like I’m broken.”

Neville’s hand covers his and he draws him up to standing, helps him set the mended cup on the table. “You’ve still got Hermione, and you’ve still got Ron.” He pauses a moment, then adds quietly, “I know it’s not the same, Harry, but you’ve still got me.”

“I know.” Another slow breath, in and out. Harry pulls Neville into a rough hug, holding on tight for a long moment. “Let’s get some breakfast, then I’ve got work waiting for me.”

Neville looks him over carefully before nodding. “You sure?”

Harry doesn’t want to leave this flat. This is his home, and this is where he had a life with Scorpius. He can feel him lingering here, his soul settled into the wood and stone. But he can’t stay here, can’t lock himself away. He knows Scorpius would never want that, and he wants to be the best person he can be for his lover. 

There will never be anyone else like him, not for Harry, and he has to begin to accept that. One day at a time.

Harry looks at Neville and summons their outer robes. He nods once, steeling himself. “Let’s go.”

As they leave the kitchen, Harry takes the mended teacup and tucks it into his pocket. He will bring it to work to keep on his desk to remind him that he can do anything with those he loves around him. 

And someday he might forgive himself for not having taught Scorpius that.

Someday. Just not yet.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Why this was a challenge for me:** First, the pairing. I’m not generally big on cross-generational relationships. A large part of it is now that I’m in my 40s, I feel weird realizing that those people in their 20s could be my kids when I’m matching them to someone my age. Or that they are closer in age to my actual kids. I’ve written Draco/Albus, but never approached Harry/Scorpius before. I’m too used to both of them being with other people (their own age). Second, the theme. I have a huge huge HUGE hot button about death. It terrifies me. Losing things terrifies me. Letting go terrifies me. Going so far as to be able to see a reason to let go and end… terrifies me. You get the idea. Not to mention that I am all too familiar with the way depression works, and it felt very raw to put that on the page and have someone else tell me I’d gotten the correct level of emptiness down. It was a bit like baring naked bits of my inner self, then mixing that with places I could never go. And I’ll admit, I bawled while writing this. Putting myself into Scorpius’ part was actually easy. In the end, there was a peace about what he did and I was sort of as numb as he was while writing it. But Harry… Harry was left with ALL the feelings, and they were so raw and angry and aching, and in order to write him, I had to feel him, and that HURT LIKE HELL. This story tried to rip me apart. On top of all that, I was in the middle of writing it when a girl one year ahead of my daughter committed suicide. She didn’t know her, but her close friends did, and there were a lot of parallels in trying to understand why a girl who was just 14 would do what she did, and trying to write this. I’m not sure I’d do it again, but in the end, the timing was oddly good, and let me work things out. It also let me consider that perhaps, someday, I _might_ try to write about the topic for original work. Maybe.


End file.
